Sunlight dappled from leaf to leaf, nothing more. No other horses. No bears. No … anything, really—except for the finest hairs at the nape of her neck rising up like pricking needles.
She grabbed the bucket and returned it to the stable, then shut the door. Let the thin horse eat in peace. Samuel could deal with it when he returned. She kept her gaze on the trees as she scurried toward the house. Nerves, most likely, but maybe she and Grace should spend the rest of the day in the cabin. An eerie foreboding wrapped around her chest and squeezed, and she upped her pace. She suspected what Samuel had said last week held even truer now.
This place was getting more dangerous every day.
Chapter 16
Samuel traveled the rest of the trail home alone, leaving Inoli to check on his own land—or more like the woman he was interested in—before coming to meet Red Bird. Probably a good thing. It would take his brother a good three weeks to trek to the overhill town of Chota and back, giving Eleanor more than enough time to acclimate not only to the wilds but also to an even wilder-looking man such as Inoli.
Wohali whickered and sidestepped. Not that he blamed the animal. He and his brother had tensed a time or two as well since finding the mangled deer and beaver, but they’d never discovered any more clues as to what had gutted them. Either the bear was more ghost than rogue—or something unknown roamed these woods.
He and Wohali splashed across the creek and up the bank, where he paused. His gut hitched—a sense that’d saved his life many a time. He scanned from tree to familiar tree. Nothing different. So why the unease skittering along every nerve? He slipped from the saddle, sniffing, separating the fragrance of loamy earth from a metallic, almost sulphuric taint. He padded forward a few more steps, and his gaze shot to the ground. Gunpowder sprinkled the earth like a dusting of fear.
Clicking his tongue, he led Wohali to the edge of the trees. Could be nothing. Could be Red Bird tried her hand at target practice in the woods today and dropped her powder horn. Or maybe Grace had stolen the thing and made a game of chase out of it.
Or else … he narrowed his eyes. Had trouble paid a visit in his absence?
The last of the day’s light slanted through the trees, ringing the yard in a murderous glow. Both stable and house doors were shut. Grace’s laughter wafted out the open window. The new lean-to still remained unfinished on the east side. All appeared to be well.
“Come, Wohali.” He tugged the horse onward. “We are old women, you and I.”
But when his boots hit the clearing, he slowed. Hoofprints, smaller, shallower than Wohali’s disturbed the ground, leading to the stable. What the devil?
He tethered his horse, then swung the door wide. Inside, an unfamiliar nicker cut through the growing shadows. A white head bobbed out from Wohali’s stall. His gaze cut to the cabin. Was someone in the house with Red Bird and Grace?
Wheeling about, he stalked halfway across the yard, when a thunder of hooves pounded up the road. He slung the rifle off his back and cocked the hammer by the time McDivitt and two other men—Rafe O’Donnell and Charlie Stane—fanned the yard in front of him.
Samuel cradled the rifle, fighting the urge to point it at McDivitt’s heart, yet keeping it handy. “What you doing on my land, McDivitt?”
Angus tipped his hat. “Good evening to you too, Heath.”
Samuel slid his gaze to Rafe, who turned his head aside, then on to Stane, whose intentions hid behind eyes so grey and lifeless, one wondered if any soul resided within.
He turned back to McDivitt. “I don’t believe you rode all the way out here for a social call.”
“Rafe here’s lookin’ for justice, and I aim to give it to him.” McDivitt nodded toward the man on his left. “Says his horse was stolen. You know anything about that?”
Samuel’s jaw hardened, a muscle twitching up near his ear. He’d spent the past decade trapping animals of all kinds in this wood and beyond in Cherokee country. This snare was ready to bite into his throat.
He glowered at McDivitt. “Why would I?”
A piercing whistle trilled past Rafe’s lips. Hooves trotted out from the stable. The three men slid from their mounts, Rafe jogging over to snag the white horse.
“Well, well.” Yellowed teeth peeked from McDivitt’s beard, and he speared Samuel with a sneer. “Looks like we found our horse thief.”
The spikes of the trap snapped shut. So … trouble had paid a visit in his absence today. Lifting the rifle, he clicked the hammer wide open and aimed at McDivitt’s legs. For now. “We both know it wasn’t me. I been out all day.”
“What I know is that you’re not going to shoot me in front of two witnesses, so you might as well put that firearm down.” Angus turned to the thin man with the thinner horse. “Rafe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That your horse?”
The man nodded. “Yes, sir.”
McDivitt hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “That your stable?”
Rafe shook his head. “No, sir.”
Angus pivoted and stalked over to the other man. Samuel followed the movement with his barrel. Charlie Stane eyed Angus with a face as blank—and dangerous—as a snake.
“Stane,” said Angus, “whose horse is that?”
“Rafe O’Donnell’s.” Stane’s voice was as cold as his gaze.
“And who’s stable is that?” Once again, McDivitt pointed.
Samuel blew out a breath, long and low. It was either that or start shooting to end such dramatics.
“Samuel Heath’s,” Stane answered.
“So …” McDivitt paced in front of the men, the tails of his riding coat swinging with each step.
Samuel lowered his rifle—but kept it at full cock.
“Mr. Stane,” Angus drawled, “are you swearing as a witness to the recovery of Rafe O’Donnell’s horse, found inside Mr. Heath’s stable?”
Samuel clamped his teeth so tight his jaw ached. He’d never had a run-in with Stane, but it appeared that was about to change. How much had McDivitt paid him?
Stane swiveled his head, training his vacant eyes on Samuel. “I swear.”
“So be it, then.” McDivitt strode to the side of his horse and untied a leather-braided whip hanging from his saddle. “Penalty for horse thieving is a whipping, Heath.”
White hot anger blazed a trail from his gut to his throat. “Quit hiding behind your own version of the law, McDivitt. If all you want is revenge, then say so, and take me on alone … unless you’re afraid. Is that it?”
Angus’s shoulders stiffened as if an arrow pinned him to a wall.
Samuel snorted. Pathetic excuse of a man.
Behind him, the cabin door flew open and little feet beat double-time on wood. He flipped the hammer to half-set and lowered the muzzle to the dirt before he turned.
“Edoda!” Grace scrambled down the porch steps, racing toward him. Her little fair head bobbed—and could just as easily be split wide open if she were caught in this fray. McDivitt might even consider it a score against him.
He held out his hand. “Stop!”
The harsh roar of his voice halted Grace in her tracks. Her face twisted, and huge tears pooled in her widened eyes. “Dada?”
Red Bird dashed out the cabin door, her skirts rippling. “I am so sorry. She got away from me.”
Samuel grimaced. The woman and the girl could have no idea what they were running headlong into. He pivoted, putting his body between the men and his family. “Rafe’s got his horse back. Now ride on out of here. All of you.”
McDivitt advanced, uncoiling the whip. “As a regulator, I’m to uphold the peace. A crime’s been committed. Justice must be served.”
“What crime?” Red Bird’s voice shivered at his back.
McDivitt jutted his jaw. “You might want to step inside, madam.”
A rat couldn’t have been more cornered. If Samuel shot now, he could take out one man, but the others would be on top of him before he could reload. His tomahawk could stop
one more, but not before Rafe or Stane struck—and with Grace and Red Bird possibly caught in the crossfire. He worked his jaw, pivoted, angling to keep the men in sight yet also make eye contact with Red Bird. “Do it. Take Grace in the house.”
The lowering sun lit a thousand questions in her gaze. Even so, she grabbed the girl’s hand without giving any voice.
In one swift movement, he swung around and lifted the rifle, pulling the hammer wide and fingering the trigger. “I’m going to give you one more chance, McDivitt. Get off my land—now—before someone gets hurt.”
McDivitt cracked the whip, the report sharp and echoing. “That horse was in your stable. You took it. And as a representative of the law—”
“No, he did not.” Red Bird’s voice breezed past him like an ill wind, prickling along his backbone. Samuel whirled, urging her to silence with his stare.
She ignored him. “I did.”
McDivitt turned toward her. “Did you, now? Hmm. That changes things a bit.”
Samuel’s gut tightened into a knot. Rage simmered, ready to blow.
McDivitt bared his teeth in a grin. “Going to be a shame to mark up that pretty back of yours, Mrs. Heath. Still, the law must be upheld.”
Angus nodded toward Rafe and Stane. “Take her, men.”
Sweat dampened Eleanor’s palms, her grip on Grace’s hand slick. The man with the whip looked down his nose at her—a nose that’d been broken and healed wrong, leaving a crooked hump on the ridge. He wore a beard, labeling him wilder than her husband—or any other man she’d encountered.
The other two men, halfway across the yard, started toward her, their boots scraping along the ground, shaving off layers of her courage with each step. A rope dangled from the hand of one. What had she just confessed to?
She swept Grace behind her and faced the man with the whip, unsure if her voice would work. “I fed and housed a horse. That is all. Is that such a crime?”
The bearded man smiled. “Is the horse yours?”
“No.”
“Then you broke the law, Mrs. Heath. Any and all persons, and I quote”—his gaze drifted upward, as if he read some great tome in the skies—“who shall be indicted and found guilty of stealing any horse, mare, gelding, colt or filly, for the first offense will be punished with the loss of an ear and/or be publicly whipped, not exceeding thirty-nine lashes on the bare back.”
“But I did not steal that horse!” She whirled to Samuel, fighting the desire to run into his arms and bury her head against his shirt, allow him to chase away the fear as he had the bear. “I—I had no idea. I only meant to give it some food and trusted you would know what to do with it when you arrived home.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’ll take care of this.” His dark eyes flashed at the advancing men. “Stop right there.”
They didn’t—until he pulled out his tomahawk. “I’m not going to let you touch her. We all know this is a false charge.”
The bushy-bearded man laughed. “You ain’t gonna be swinging that blade around. Think of the blood, the mess, the nightmares your pretty wife there will have for years to come … and yer child. She’ll be scarred for life, I imagine.”
Samuel’s shoulders stretched tight. The tomahawk hit the ground as he turned to her. “Take Grace inside. Now!”
The harshness of his tone settled in the hollow of her bones, adding to her fear, and starting a wail from Grace. Eleanor swept up the child, happy to leave this macabre scene.
“Put the girl down, Mrs. Heath.” The man cracked the whip.
The tail of it whiffed near her ear.
Grace screeched.
She froze.
Samuel roared. “McDivitt! So help me, if you touch my wife—”
“Justice must be served, Heath.” The man closed in on her. “Rafe, Stane, tie her up.”
His words smeared across the coming darkness, ugly, black, and sinister. She swayed, her breathing shallow. Her knees shivery. No! Everything in her screamed a bloody absolutely not.
Samuel slid between her and the man with the whip, the breadth of his shoulders blocking her view.
“Then whip me. It’s my privilege as a husband to take on my wife’s sentence.”
Her mouth dropped. Was this real—or a nightmare?
Grace’s tears soaked into Eleanor’s bodice. “Etsi!”
Eleanor retreated. Oh that she may gain the safety of the cabin before anyone noticed.
Her view widened as she backed away.
The man jerked his head toward Samuel, the whites of his eyes huge. “You’ll serve her debt?”
“I will.”
Her step hitched, as did her breath. A jolt hit every nerve, leaving behind a jittery unease. Had he really just agreed to a lashing? Because of her?
As if he’d read her mind, Samuel’s dark gaze bore straight into her heart. He nodded toward the house.
She turned and ran.
Once inside, she slammed the door shut and leaned against it, glad for the support. Grace choked her, squirming in her arms. What to do? She slid to the floor in a daze.
My precious Lord;
My only hope;
My Saviour, how I need You now.
The prayer circled back and slammed into her, as shocking as the crack of the whip outside. She flinched. Of course she needed help—but Samuel needed it more.
Rising, she dashed over to her bed and unwrapped Grace as she might a wet cape, so unyielding did the girl cling to her. The snap of the whip violated the coming evening.
“Here, sweet.” She grabbed a rag doll off the pillow where Grace had last played and thrust it into her hands. Then she looked deep into the child’s blue eyes, swollen with tears. “Stay put. You hear me? Do not move!”
Grace’s lip quivered.
Eleanor softened her tone. “I shall be back straightaway. I promise.”
The child let out a shaky breath, then dove under the pillow.
Eleanor snatched her pistol off a shelf and darted for the front door, hesitating with her palm on the latch. Could she do this?
Crack!
Indeed. If Samuel hadn’t stepped in, that would be her back bearing the lash. He wouldn’t have left her alone with nothing but angry men and pain.
She slipped out the door, strode to the edge of the porch, and stopped. Going farther was not an option. Her feet wouldn’t move.
Across the yard, two of the men stood with arms folded, watching the brutality. They’d tied Samuel to a tree, arms above his head. His shirt lay in a blue heap on the dirt. The fabric was probably still warm from his body, still smelling of a day spent in the woods, of pine and smoke and strength.
The bearded man reared back. His arm snapped forward. The whip uncoiled, slicing through the air faster than her eyes could follow. By the time the leather thong returned to a standstill, a spray of red droplets had arced through the air and violated Samuel’s shirt—and another jagged line opened on his back, flesh split wide open.
Samuel took it silently. Letting the man rip long gashes into his skin. Draining his blood in weeping drips that soaked into his breeches.
Crack!
His body recoiled with each strike, yet he made no noise. Not a moan. No groans. Not even a cry. Was he breathing?
Hot tears ran down Eleanor’s cheeks. For an instant, she stood helpless, great sobs roaming in her chest, flinching with each sickening blow.
Then she cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger. Gunpowder exploded.
The shot fell short, yards from where the men stood. One of them smiled. The other stalked toward her.
But the one she really wanted to stop whaled another wicked blow onto Samuel’s back, more brutal than any of the previous strikes. The whip fell to the ground like a black snake.
“Leave the woman be. I’m done,” the bearded man ordered. “Untie him.”
Eleanor pressed a knuckle to her mouth. Hard. Pinching the tender skin between bone and teeth, unable to move away but unwilling to move
any closer. Yet.
Once the rope was loosened, Samuel dropped to his knees and tipped forward, his shoulder catching against the tree. The bearded man laughed as he coiled up the rope. One of the others stomped on Samuel’s shirt as he headed for his horse.
Eleanor’s heart lurched, and she dashed down the stairs.
The bushy-bearded man wheeled about, and when his gaze snagged on her, he stalked forward, coiling up the whip as he came. Odd twitches jerked the sides of his mouth. He reached out a hand. “Don’t cry, Mariah. Come home with me.”
She backed up a step, her blood turning cold. She’d visited Bedlam once, forced to accompany a countess and her charge. This was the same glassy stare she’d witnessed there, pupils pinpoints on a white canvas.
“I am not Mariah.” The calmness she forced into her voice mixed with her own mad cry, and the words came out ragged.
A wave rippled across his face, starting at the jaw and working its way upward, until his brow lifted in understanding. “No, you aren’t, are you? But that don’t mean you can’t leave with me. My offer stands.”
Was this country made up of nothing but lunatics and ruffians? She clutched her skirt, prepared to run back to the cabin and lock the door. “No thank you.”
“We’re done here, McDivitt.” The largest of the men dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and tore off down the road, twilight’s shadows swallowing him. The other man followed, the white horse tied to his mount and trotting behind.
The bearded man’s gaze swept over her from head to toe.
She held her breath. Why hadn’t she thought to grab more shots?
But then he turned and loped to his horse. He swung up into the saddle, the whip crossing at an angle over his chest like Samuel wore his rifle strap.
She waited until his horse pounded down the road; then she darted over to Samuel and sank to her knees beside him. “Samuel?”
Blood dripped down his back. His chest heaved. His voice was a whisper. “Help—” He sucked in a breath. “Help me inside.”
His big arm landed on her shoulder, and she hefted upward with all her strength. He rose to his feet with a grunt, leaning on her.
The Captive Heart Page 13